


Pansy Waltz

by undecimber



Series: Hannibal in Lingerie [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, High Heels, Lingerie, M/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undecimber/pseuds/undecimber
Summary: A profusion of frills in shades of cream and ivory.





	Pansy Waltz

The notes of the harpsichord were so rich as to take a near-physical presence in the air, winding in a sinuous impression through the archway of the drawing room, where the instrument sat beetle-like at a corner, black and gleaming.  
  
Hannibal was composing a piece he had worked on all week, nearing completion, at last, from the sound of it. The issue remained with a section towards the end to which he made numerous alterations–weaving a line of music that ascended in pitch, its vivacity abutting furor–the climax before the final iteration of the main melody.  
  
He went over it repeatedly to little apparent satisfaction, pulling its threads apart only to reassemble them, again and again.  
  
In the opposite room, receiving the broad window's spill of syrupy afternoon light, Will had a box of fly-fishing things open at the desk, its contents strewn across the wooden surface. Deftly, he tied a fishing lure through the suspended magnifying glass, although his mind wandered, half-absorbed in dappled remembrances.  
  
The feathers of the lure were mementos of a sort, collected on his and Hannibal's last trip to the countryside: a week-long idyll, of many walks in the wooded area surrounding their lodge, easy evenings spent in fire-lit intimacy. Once, they had chanced upon a stream of glittering water, so pleasing as it roped by that Will couldn't resist the impulse to dip his hands into it...  
  
The music stopped. Hannibal was scratching new notations onto his sheet music, no doubt. The absence of sound was abrupt and encompassing, like bereavement of touch; Will wished, suddenly, to see him.  
  
Leaving the lure unfinished, he abandoned his desk and headed to the drawing room, passing the foot of the staircase.  
  
It was an extravagant room, furnished in damask wallpaper and dark leather upholstery. Gilt framed paintings splashed vivid color on the walls. Antique lamps with carmine lampshades were dispersed across mahogany tabletops, like drops of blood.  
The subtle arrangement of the room was such that the focus of one's attention was invariably drawn to the instrument, which was elevated on a small dais, adorned with a floral motif in golden paint.  
  
Entirely absorbed in his work, Hannibal acknowledged Will's entry with a mere glance. After a few more scratches to paper, he capped the pen and placed it on the sheet music stand.  
  
His fingers were suspended over the rosewood keys for an instant of coiled energy, consummately poised. Then he delved into the music again, entirely.  
  
This time, he went over the piece from start to finish, a mellifluous eruption that stretched on for several minutes of impassioned intonation, soaring crescendos, and drops in scale so steep, Will felt the vibration of their resonance at the soles of his feet. Scant as his knowledge of music was, he could recognize the technical difficulty of the composition, how Hannibal's adroit fingers flit over the keyboard to play the chords rapidly, with such smoothness not a hitch marred the sound.  
  
And yet he was unhappy, evidenced by the crease that formed between his brows.  
  
"What about it dissatisfies you?"  
  
Hannibal turned to Will, who had settled on the divan by the window, like he'd forgotten he was there, or did not expect him to speak. "I cannot say," he answered. "Only a sense of wrongness, that it does not aptly evoke the feeling I wish to be evoked."  
  
"What would that be?"  
  
A twitch of a smile. "If words were adequate, I would not so labor to put it to music."  
  
"Is that what motivates you to compose?" Will rose, moving to stand at Hannibal's shoulder. "Means to voicing the inexpressible?"  
  
"Perhaps," said Hannibal with a contemplative look. He folded his hands on his lap. "There are patterns, of course, to composition–musical structures, a mathematical aspect. As with all art, however, there is also an essential component of the abstract, which hinges on...less reliable things."  
  
"Sounds elusive."  
  
Hannibal sighed; he leaned away from the harpsichord. "That is enough for today, I think."  
  
Since disturbing him was no longer a concern, Will slipped down on the low seat next to him, for no particular reason but the pleasure of proximity. His thigh pressed to Hannibal's thigh, warmly, shoulder brushing shoulder.  
  
A few beats of silence.  
  
"I was at the shops earlier," remarked Hannibal, innocuous on the surface.  
  
"Yeah? What did you get."  
  
Hannibal tilted his jaw, just so, the slanting light gleaming high on a cheekbone. "You will have to wait until tonight, to see."  
  
"Oh," said Will.  
  
*  
  
He could not imagine getting used to it. Several months had elapsed since Hannibal granted him entry into this prior-locked room, yet each time was like the first time, still, new and breathless, no matter how braced he'd considered himself. The fluttering wonder of witnessing a magician's trick, milky doves bursting into flight out of an empty palm.  
  
Hannibal, who had many faces, who Will had seen in distinct versions of varying habiliment (and in nothing at all) was altogether another creature when made up this way. Will had the sense that his own presence lent an element of performance –not inauthentic, any more than any of Hannibal's other sides, but rather an enhanced expression.  
  
Hannibal's ensemble tonight was a departure from what Will had so far come to expect: elegance touched with danger or mystery; affinity to opulent reds and purples, trimmed in gorgeous black lace. An image of smoldering androgynous eroticism.  
  
Instead, Hannibal elected a far softer, more delicate mode of presentation: a profusion of frills in shades of cream and ivory.  
  
He wore a chiffon robe, light and aerial, fastened at the waist. The sleeves had many layers of ruched fabric, and there were ruffles on the lapels. The robe was shorter at the front, mid-thigh, trailing behind to terminate at the backs of his calves.  
  
Underneath, Hannibal had on a little bralette, snug against the mild swell of his chest. His silk stockings were sheer, his long legs ridiculously accentuated in pale pink high heels with a texture like suede, strapped to his ankles.  
  
The fringe of his hair swept loosely over his forehead. A simple pair of small, perfectly formed pearl earrings were clipped to his ears. His eyes appeared wider, his eyelashes heavy, curling fronds. Rosy cheeks and a luscious mouth, the color of a strawberry, completed the look.  
  
All this Will took in with a prolonged peer, sat at the foot of the bed, while Hannibal stood in a dainty posture, hands held at his front. A certain slant to his hips and shoulders gave him an air of innocence. Will would almost call it _girlish_ , if not for the sheer absurdity of the notion.  
  
"I've never seen you look so..." he floundered for a descriptor, "Uh. Vernal?"  
  
Hannibal tipped his chin down, fixing Will with a pretty-lashed look of affected demureness, belied by the mischievous curve of his lips. "Do you like it?"  
  
The paint enhanced the pout of his mouth to kissable prominence.  
  
“Well, come closer,” said Will, holding out a hand. Hannibal stepped up to him, the sharp punch of his heels muffled to a thud by the rug. He placed a perfectly manicured hand in Will’s, the fingernails, as always, pained a similar hue to his lipstick.  
  
Up close, Will could make out some of the details of his lingerie, the gold piping on the robe and the fine pattern of flower blossoms on the lace of his garter belts. Hannibal smelled good too, a scent that was quite sweet, but not cloying, undercut with warm woody notes.  
  
The heels made him loom over Will.  
  
“How do you not trip in these,” Will said, perfectly aware of being pedestrian.  
  
An arched brow. “Practice.”  
  
Will pulled Hannibal forward by the hand, making him bend, having to place his knees on the bed. He leaned back a little, resting his weight on the flat of a palm behind him, accommodating a lapful of Hannibal.  
  
Hannibal laced his fingers at the nape of Will's neck. “You didn’t answer me," he said.  
  
“You know I like it," Will said, huskily.  
  
“It does not hurt to hear it.”  
  
“You’re terribly vain."  
  
The mock admonition made Hannibal smirk.  
  
His hands busied themselves, stroking Will’s shoulders and petting his hair. Presently he brought them to Will’s face, enveloping it in a gentle cradle, his thumbs sweeping back and forth across both cheeks. He leaned down, his advance slow so his breath wafted warmly over Will's skin for a few moments, before he sealed their lips together.  
  
It was a close-mouthed kiss, long, but precise, carefully pressed. Will only half-shut his eyes, watching through the wisp of his lashes Hannibal's retreat, the way his eyes opened languidly, a touch of satisfaction to his smile.  
  
If Will were to look in a mirror, he imagined a neat impression of strawberry pink staining his mouth. He knew how Hannibal relished marking him up that way.  
  
“You told me once,” he said, fiddling with the hem of a sleeve, “That all these years, this was a private aesthetic exploration of yours."  
  
“That’s right.”  
  
"All about ritual and transformation."  
  
"Yes."  
  
“You never mentioned whether there were sexual undertones too.”  
  
Hannibal’s face lit up merrily. "Do you imagine me inflamed, tossing abed–or arranged before a mirror, perhaps, watching myself?" Lips close to Will's ear, "Touching myself?"

He laughed softly. "It was always quite sensual, but not particularly arousing, I’m afraid."  
  
“And now?" Will said, smoothing a hand down the front of Hannibal's robe.  
  
"Now?" Hannibal repeated with an incline of his head, feigning ignorance to Will's meaning.  
  
Will bunched a loose fist around the fabric, voice low, "I want to know what you thought of when you put on these pretty things."  
  
Hannibal's eyelids drooped, seduction incarnate. "I thought of that look of hunger on your face, when you see me like this. Your eyes going dark and trailing all over me."  
  
Even as he spoke of it, Will's hungry look intensified, his breath deepening.  
  
Hannibal pushed his shoulders to the bed. He began to unbutton Will's shirt unhurriedly. He was fixed on his task, eyelashes sweeping down with every slow blink of his down-cast eyes. A subtle wash of eye-shadow made his lids shimmer in the low light. The sleeves of his robe made a swishing sound and faintly tickled Will’s chest.  
  
The quality of Will’s voice had a faraway, dreamy note when he spoke: “I almost don’t want to touch you. Don’t want to muss you up.”  
  
Hannibal paused in the unbuttoning, eyes flicking up to Will’s. He tracked a hand from Will's chest down between his legs, where he had unmistakably hardened.  
  
“I said almost," Will huffed.  
  
Hannibal smiled and continued to divest Will of his shirt. Will sat up to shrug his arms out of it, then moved back towards the headboard; he unbuckled his belt and shimmied out of his pants as well.  
  
Hannibal drew close, a sensual crawl up the bed, back arched like a feline, eyes slitted and bright. Kneeling on top of Will, he lowered himself so their erections pressed close. He began to roll his hips rhythmically, long dragging motions that rubbed their cocks together in exquisite sparks of friction.  
  
Heat and pressure built up and swirled in Will's abdomen; silk and lace grazed the outside of his thighs.  
  
He lifted a hand to unfasten the knot tying Hannibal's robe, baring the twitching of Hannibal's belly as it fell open. The angle at which he lay gave him view of the downward tilt of Hannibal's chest above him, sweetly cupped by the bralette, a smattering of hair peeking at the top, disappearing into the enticing dip between his pectorals.  
  
Will put his arms around Hannibal's waist and pulled him down closer to nuzzle there, loving the way it prickled his nose. He brought his hands up and pawed at Hannibal's tits, fingertips teasing at the nipples through the fabric till they peaked under his touch; then he pinched and tugged until Hannibal made that lovely whine he liked.  
  
Tightening his grasp on Hannibal, he flipped them over, with a whoosh and rustle of chiffon, so he was on top, between Hannibal's open legs.  
  
He took a moment to simply savor the sight of Hannibal draped underneath him, cushioned by the pillows, the robe spread out around him. The realization of a fantasy Will never knew he harbored–all these frills, like tissue wrapping coming off a present. With the backs of his fingers, he lavished a tender caress down his face, shaved so smoothly.  
  
Gaze unbroken, Hannibal drew a knee up, up, up; with a fiendish twinkle in his eyes, he brought the blunt flat of his sole to Will's groin, a threatening pressure. Will cocked an eyebrow, holding very still. Hannibal bore his foot down harder, eliciting a deep groan. He grinned. Easing off the pressure, he trailed the tip of his shoe up, up, up, at a glacial pace, letting the point of his heel come to rest on Will's sternum.  
  
A shudder went all the way up Will's spine.  
  
He took hold of Hannibal's ankle roughly and began to unfasten the buckle of the shoe, yanking it off. He dropped it over the side of the bed with a careless plunk, which produced an amused sound from Hannibal. The next shoe was similarly unfastened, drawn away, revealing Hannibal's stocking-clad feet.

The paint on his trim little toenails was visible through the sheer silk, giving Will a moment's pause. He was, inexplicably, charmed, and left a small kiss on the toes.  
  
He took great pleasure in feeling up Hannibal's long smooth legs, the warmth of him radiating through the stockings like a second skin. Then he turned his attention to Hannibal's swollen cock, obscenely distending his cream panties –an overripe fruit, splitting at the seam of its casing.  
  
Peeling the panties off, he mouthed at the tip, slippery and hot, throbbing between his lips. He applied slow laves of his tongue; gentle suckling. Hannibal's thighs were at his shoulders. When Will took him in deeper, his thighs tightened, and he let out a breathy moan, his hips jerking up.  
  
"Will," he implored, tugging on Will's hair with both hands. Will ran his tongue all along the underside before he pulled away, moistly.  
  
"Off with these," Hannibal panted, plucking at the waistband of Will's boxers.  
  
They wound up on their sides, facing each other in a tangle. Hannibal rode Will's thigh, lodged between his legs, leaving a messy trail of sticky fluid that made filthy squelching sounds. Will ground his shaft up against the crease of Hannibal's hip. Chests heaving, they exchanged hot, open mouthed kisses, smearing streaks of lipstick across each other's faces.  
  
Hannibal's eyes were glazed over, so deeply adulatory. "How lovely you are," he breathed.  
  
The heat of his skin gave off puffs of perfume, intensely laced with the musk of his sweat. Will groaned, thrusting more urgently. Hiking Hannibal's leg further up his thigh, he brought slicked up fingers down to Hannibal's rear, stroking the tips against the tight furl of his sphincter.  
  
"Mmmh, yes," Hannibal cried, when Will pushed inside. "Yes, yes," he moaned, half wild when Will curled his fingers against that sensitive spot within. He was caught between two points of pleasure, grinding back against Will's hand and frotting against Will's thigh harder, faster, completely lost to the rush of sensation, until he came profusely, a strangled whimper in his throat.

He wrapped a hand around Will and jerked him off tightly, precipitating a quivering orgasm that splashed hot against his skin.  
  
*  
  
Hannibal was first to stir afterwards, sitting up in bed. He ran a hand through his hair, quite tousled by now.  
  
Will did not feel the need to rise yet, quite content to look at him. It was fascinating to see the flirtatious, airy manner fall away from him, like a switch flipped off, a nearly inconspicuous yet definite change in his demeanor, reverting back to his customary grace of comportment. As he sat straight, his shoulders seemed firmer, somehow.  
  
Will watched him get up and disappear into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar, a spill of white glow on the floor. He luxuriated in a full-bodied stretch until he felt a crack in his back and groaned.  
  
When he joined Hannibal in the bathroom, he found him mostly back to sorts, smoothing his hair down in the mirror, face wiped clean. Will ambled in nude to wash his hands, then dampened a towel under the faucet to quickly wipe away the stickiness off his stomach and thighs.  
  
"Come here, then," said Hannibal, nudging him to sit on the countertop. Fresh makeup wipe in his hand, he held Will's chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting it back. He swiped away at the mess around Will's mouth and cheek. The wipe came away stained with a seeping blush.  
  
In a burgeoning rush of fondness, Will pressed his face to the base of Hannibal's neck, nestling there. He inhaled deeply, taking comfort in his warmth and scent.  
  
Hannibal enfolded him in a loose clasp, moving closer to nose at the top of his head.  
  
"Are you happy, Will?"  
  
"Sure," he said, thoughtlessly.  
  
"I mean—" abruptly bitten off.  
  
Will disentangled from the embrace to regard Hannibal, noting a flicker of tension in his face.  
  
"Never mind."  
  
He took a step away and looked back into the mirror, patting his hair down again. “I seem to have worked up an appetite. Shall I fix you a bite too?"  
  
Will's eyebrows came together, puzzled. "Alright."  
  
*  
  
The only light switched on was the ceiling lamp hanging above the kitchen island, shedding conical yellow radiance that set the marble countertop aglow. The embellished brass handles on the wooden cabinets gleamed warmly. The deep green tiles on the walls gave off dim yet slick reflections.

Shadows in the corners of the kitchen bred a heavy quietude that had a hush of sanctity.  
  
In came Will, shortly after putting on a shirt and clean boxers. There was a loaf of bread on the counter, from which Hannibal had cut two slices, toasted and set on a tray. Now he cut some cheese off a hefty wedge.  
  
He had replaced his frilly robe with a sedate dressing gown, but still wore the rest of the lingerie underneath. Pearls still clipped to his earlobes.   
  
There was something transfixing about his hand wielding the knife, sharp steel offset by the pink varnish coating his fingernails, its liquid sheen under the lamp light. Will approached and propped his forearms on the cool marble, watching.  
  
It was Hannibal who broke the silence. "I would have brought it upstairs."  
  
Will made a non-committal sound, as though it didn't matter one way or the other, but he had purpose in coming down.  
  
Hannibal moved on to slicing a tomato, thinly.  
  
"Have I given you reason to doubt my happiness?"  
  
There passed briefly an expression of vague strain across Hannibal's face, like in the bathroom, earlier. He put the knife down. "Not particularly."

  
He was clearly not eager to broach the subject, but continued, after an uncomfortable pause: "I am merely conscious that my own might keep me complacent. I wish for our feelings to be concordant."  
  
Will bowed his head, quiet for a trice. "I'm happy."  
  
"You sound uncertain."  
  
"Not uncertain, only..." Will's words petered out. He wondered how to articulate something so abstruse.  
  
He thought about their trip from a few weeks ago, how it had all seemed intangible even as he lived through it. How remote appeared the beauty of the massy oaks and elms, enveloped in hazy illumination of sun rays piercing through the morning mist.  
  
The memory of one particular evening blazed hot and bright in his mind. He'd been sprawled out on a rug before the crackling fireplace, his back against Hannibal's chest; for what seemed like ages, Hannibal had made love to him, with mouth and hands, drawing it out to unbearable heights of ecstasy, opening Will up in sweet increments until he felt his insides melt, aching and squeezing around Hannibal's nudging digits.  
  
It had seemed as if the piteous noises he made were something completely out of his control. Wrenched by some will apart from his own, while Hannibal pressed kisses to the shell of his ear and murmured soothing words of adoration.  
  
Through the daze of pleasure, there had been a feeling, expanding with a sharp pressure against his ribcage. At the climax, the feeling was so overwhelming, he might have wept in Hannibal's arms.  
  
The closest description he could attribute to it was acute awareness of something precious that could not be possessed.  
  
An awareness of the possibility of loss.  
  
"I'm unaccustomed to a surplus of happiness. Doesn't feel quite right. Feels like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."  
  
Hannibal pursed his lips, considering. "You are ill at ease....with ease."  
  
That was a succinct way to put it. "I suppose," said Will, shrugging a hunched shoulder. He reached a hand and filched a tomato slice off the cutting board, earning an irritable tut.

He smiled at Hannibal and popped it in his mouth.

"I'm sure I'll get used to it sometime."  
  
*  
  
Will woke up to an empty bed a few hours later. He didn't have to ponder Hannibal's whereabouts for long: faintly, but surely, he could make out the strains of the harpsichord from downstairs.  
  
The sound grew more distinct as he opened the bedroom door, crossed the corridor, and came down the staircase. Descending quietly, he stopped several steps shy of the landing, finding that he did not wish to make himself known.  
  
Hannibal was playing softly on account of the late hour, nowhere near his full force of gusto. Will listened to him go over his piece, detecting yet another alteration.

The conversation from the kitchen overlapped with their conversation in the afternoon, and he wondered what it was that Hannibal wanted so ardently to express, for which words did not suffice.  
  
Even conjoined beings were entities unto themselves. There were yet many unarticulated things between them. Many other locked rooms whose contents he wasn't yet privy to.  
  
Well, that was alright. Sitting down, leaning against the iron-wrought banister, Will decided that they had time. Months and months more, years more, if they wished it. Much span for him to glean all of Hannibal's parts and pieces, his innermost thoughts and feelings, slotting in the right key and unlocking door after door. After door.  
  
What a consoling thought. Will crossed his arms over his knees and drifted into the music, as if into a reverie.

 


End file.
